Desormais
by Sahara Storm
Summary: [Oneshot, Thors, ThorsHelga] This is the only blade he will swing from now on. A day in the life of the Thors family.


**Title:** Desormais**  
Fandom:** Vinland Saga**  
Character/Pairing:** Thors, Thors/Helga, Thorfinn, Ylfa**  
Rating: **PG**  
Word Count: **1,709**  
Summary/Description:** This is the only blade he will swing from now on. A day in the life of the Thors family.**  
Warning/Spoilers:** None.**  
A/N: **31 days, May 6th: _past a sign that says 'good love town'_. Good lord, I love this man. And his relationship with his waifu. ;;**  
Disclaimer:** Not mine. Don't sue.

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The axe falls with one clean, smooth stroke, and the block of wood splits into two pieces. Thors readies another block with one movement of his long arm, and the axe rises again. Sweat pours down his brow, into his eyes, down his cheeks, and soaks through his beard. He doesn't mind, though. It is a mark of the work he is doing; the honest, hard work, the only kind fit for a man, and he relishes in it. This is the only blade he will swing from now on.

Across the yard, Helga hangs the washing out on the line, working effortlessly against the blowing winds. Thors straightens as he wipes sweat from his brow, turning in her direction. Fleetingly, she turns her smiling face towards him, and moments like these are what Thors lives for now. He returns her gentle wave with a tip of his hand.

Back to the chopping block. Another swing of his arms, another splintered piece of wood, another block to fuel their life. They aren't perfect; nowhere near so. They aren't always halves, and sometimes the blocks are uneven. That doesn't diminish his satisfaction at his work, though. In a few hours, he will arrive at the workshop and mend cast iron pots with utter imperfection and he will enjoy himself immensely.

It only takes a few more minutes for him to complete the current load. He sets off for the house with an armful, Helga not far behind with her empty basket. His arms ache, but it is a good sort of ache. When last he felt this peaceful, he cannot remember.

"Faaaaaaaaaaaathheeer," calls a voice high pitched with youth as a tiny body pelts itself down the small hillside. It's no easy feat to juggle all the firewood into the crook of one arm and swing his son up into his grasp, but Thors manages it, for Thorfinn. He would do anything for this boy.

"What is it, Thorfinn?" he asks as tiny hands tug at his full beard.

"Ylfa's being _mean_," is the childish complaint. Thorfinn's chubby face is bright red. There was a time before when the only blood Thors saw was splattered on the ground, seconds after he spilt it. Now, he can see it in the flushing of skin and reddening of cheeks; the rose of his wife's lips and the sparse flowers that bloom in their short spring.

"Alright, come on," he says, hoisting his son up further. "Let's sort this out."

Thorfinn beams, his pout disappearing into the dimples that crease his cheeks. It is obvious that he sees himself emerging as the victor in this latest skirmish between him and his sister. Thors chuckles, shaking his head as Thorfinn hugs him around his neck briefly. He can hear the sound of Helga's soft laughter behind them.

"Do you need help with that, Father?" his son asks, pointing at the stack of firewood in his other arm. Thors pretends to adopt a look of consideration.

"What, from you? No, no, I wouldn't want to burden you."

As expected, Thorfinn huffs, and sticks out his chest indignantly.

"It wouldn't be a burden! I bet I could carry seven times that! Maybe even ten!"

He flexes his little arms to show off his strength and Thors watches with amusement.

"Ahh... I see you're hiding some formidable muscles under that tunic. Well, perhaps you can hold a few."

Thorfinn eagerly grabs two logs from the stack and cradles them in his arms, looking like nothing makes him any prouder. The look is mirrored in Thors' eyes as he gazes at his son.

When they get nearer to the hut, Thorfinn wriggles in his arms, signalling that he wants to be let down. No doubt because Ylfa is watching from somewhere nearby, and he has no wish for her to witness him being held by their father. At only six years old, Thorfinn has all the pride of a man thrice his age.

Helga catches up, and walks alongside him. Automatically, he slows his pace by a fraction so that she will not have to hurry to keep up with his stride. Together, they watch as their son leads the way back to the house, head held high like a general's. Helga smiles into her hand, and then reaches up to unknot the kerchief that covers her hair. The flaxen strands are coloured a brilliant gold in the sunlight, Thors notices. His wife stretches up to mop sweat off of his brow as they walk; he bends a little to accommodate her.

Ylfa is standing in front of the hut when they get there, hands braced on her hips as if ready for a confrontation. When he looks at his daughter, he feels as if he is looking at the fire and the passion of an entire generation of women. She and Thorfinn glare at each other fiercely, and Thors knows that he should intervene. He touches his wife briefly on the shoulder before walking ahead to stand between his children. In the olden days, a dispute between his subordinates would have been settled with simple curt words, and perhaps a fist. Now, he has been ordained in the language of patience and temperance.

"Alright, you two." Even though his voice is firm, he cannot help but smile slightly, to look at the pair of them, scowling like foxes. "What is the problem?"

They both rush to speak at once; Thorfinn wins the race.

"Ylfa threw out my best shield! It was the really good one that you made for me, Father. She threw it away, because she's probably _jealous_ you didn't make anything for her."

He ticks out his tongue viciously to punctuate the accusation. Ylfa bristles in consternation, stamping a foot briefly before turning to Thors.

"Okay, _one_; what the heck would I want one of his stupid shield or toys swords for? _I'm_ not the one with delusions of grandeur here. _Two_; I didn't throw it away, I gave it to one of the boys I met by the river. _Three_—" Here, she turns to stab a finger in Thorfinn's direction. "—I wouldn't have given it away in the first place if you didn't always keep leaving it lying around the house! I already have to pick up after you, and you're just making it ten times as hard!"

Her blue eyes flash in a way that reminds Thors of Helga on the night of Ylfa's birth, thirteen years ago. He smiles wryly, and claps a hand on Thorfinn's shoulder, guiding him to stand next to his sister. They both frown at that, but he quietens their protests with a stern look. And then he kneels in front of them.

"Thorfinn, your sister is right. Ah ahh, no, listen to me," he interrupts when Thorfinn makes a move to speak. "I know the shield you speak of; I remember making it. If you do indeed treasure it, then you should not leave it lying around the house. Your sister works very hard, and it's not fair to make her chores any harder."

Ylfa grins, triumphant, before Thors turns on her.

"And Ylfa..." Her smile fades by just a fraction. "You are the older one; you should know better than to goad your brother. I'm quite sure you know that he did not truly mean to leave the shield where it would get in the way. You would do well to be more understanding towards your little brother."

He glances between them both as they nod sullenly, looking chastised.

"Good." He finally deposits the armload of firewood on the ground, and stands, ruffling their bright blond heads. "Thorfinn, I will make you a new shield, and Ylfa will paint it for you. Ylfa, Thorfinn will be helping you in the barn this afternoon."

They both groan a little, looking peeved, but they remember to nod acquiescence. Thors sees a little piece of himself in their expressions. He loves them, his stubborn, pouting, fierce and proud children, and treasures the fact that he loves them. There was a time when he held little regard for anyone, even himself, but his family has helped mend that. He loves them for it.

Helga approaches, and the children disperse. She smiles as she watches them walk off; Ylfa to continue her chores, and Thorfinn to find a comrade to play with.

"Crisis averted?"

He reaches out and cups one of her shoulders, rubbing it absently.

"Crisis narrowly averted. For now. You never know when they might start it up again."

She laughs softly into her hand.

"I'll keep an eye on them as I make the noon meal, Thors."

His smile is a grateful one. It's a bit amazing, how Helga always seems to know what to say, and what to do, and what he wants, sometimes before he even knows he wants it. There is no one who knows him better.

"Do that for me, Helga."

He kisses her then, for the good and simple reason that she is his wife, she is beautiful, and he loves her. He doesn't say the words often, because it is something that he will never be good at. Helga knows, though, and she returns it in the way she curls her fingers at the back of his neck; in the way she breathes deeply through her nose as she kisses him sweetly.

They pull apart, and he rubs her back gently, eyes glinting.

"I'm going to cut a few more loads," he says, gesturing back down the hill where the logs for firewood and his axe are waiting. She nods.

"I'll send Thorfinn to call you when the meal is ready."

She disappears inside the house, leaving Thors to bask for a few moments in the mild sun and the feeling of contentedness that spreads in his limbs. A long time ago, he was only truly happy when his sword hand was swinging in the milieu of war. It was a false feeling of satisfaction; it is only now, as he has embraced the true warrior in himself, that he has grasped real happiness.

He takes a last glance at the hut before starting down the hill with a smile.

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**A/N:** _Desormais_; French for 'from now on'.

This might be the corniest thing I've ever written. IDC, I love writing fluffy shit. ;;


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